The Valentines

There’s excitement all over her sweet little face. My sister loves me very much – and she likes Noah – but she loves a good romance story more. And Benjamin has been killing daisies and leaving them for me on the kitchen table since we were six years old. In her eyes, this is a solid love triangle.

‘Umm,’ I say hesitantly as I’m pushed on to the landing. ‘Baby, I honestly need a shower before I see another human. I’m all stinky and sweaty, and I think I ran through some duck poop, so—’

Hope leans towards me and sniffs. ‘Roses,’ she says matter-of-factly, spinning me round to face the stairs. ‘Roses and dewdrops and macaroons and kittens. It doesn’t matter what you do, Faith Valentine. You are always perfection.’

Why did the robber take a bath?

He wanted to make a clean getaway.

‘Just a second!’ I call through the keyhole.

A clean getaway. HA! I wish.

Quickly, I rub a posh scented candle on my neck, wipe my sweaty face on my T-shirt and try to arrange it into an I’m-just-an-old-friend-almost-like-a-sister-and-not-a-romantic-prospect-who-will-suddenly-see-you-in-a-new-light-stop-looking-at-me-like-that expression. Ben has obviously watched way too many romcoms.

Then I fling the door open and my nonchalant, ‘Oh hello,’ is appropriately truncated to an, ‘Oh hell.’

There’s a long silence.

‘Faith,’ Dame Sylvia Valentine says eventually, looking me up and down in steely-faced horror. ‘Is this some kind of … joke?’

Blinking, I glance down the driveway. There’s no sign of Ben. Obviously, he saw my famous grandmother and her even more famous walking stick coming and dived into a bush. Smart boy.

‘Is … what a joke?’

‘This.’ Grandma waves her stick at me and sniffs like a scandalised bloodhound. ‘When I said prepare a natural look, I did not mean that of a long-term vagrant with –’ she leans forward – ‘undertones of bitter orange peel and lavender.’

My nose twitches: this is a woman who knows her Liberty candles.

‘I thought you said ten o’clock and it’s only—’

‘You are a Valentine.’ She holds up a pale, heavily diamond-spangled hand. ‘We do not open doors in a dishevelled state, regardless of the relative position of the sun. What would you have done if I were a journalist? What if I were a crazed member of the public? What if I had a video-log?’

I hold my head down so she doesn’t see my nostrils flicker again. Video-log? ‘Sorry, Grandma.’

‘We must always be in a state of readiness.’ I glance up. Grandma has begun projecting in her small-theatre voice. ‘There is no intermission, Faith. For us, the curtains are always up.’

I dip my head further. ‘Sorry, Grandma.’

‘Get in the car, please,’ she says curtly. ‘I expect irreverent behaviour from your siblings, not from you.’

Then she turns and marches towards the silver limo, disappointment radiating from her shoulders.

Sudden guilt rushes through me. Those two hours weren’t mine at all. I should have been washing, scrubbing, shaving, plucking, conditioning, masking, moisturising, face-packing, contouring. I should have been filling in all the holes in me so that nobody else could see them.

‘Sorry, Grandma,’ I say for the third time. Three bags full, Grandma.

Then I do exactly as I’m told.

‘… potential,’ Grandma reads as I lean back in the limo and scrub my face with a cloth that smells of cucumber. ‘With the coruscating beauty of a modern movie legend –’ she looks pointedly at me – ‘and half of this year’s hottest teen couple, Faith Valentine is poised to make her mark on the film industry. Movie offers are already flooding in from around the globe.’

Genevieve hands me another wet towel from an enormous straw bag that appears to contain the entire contents of a day spa. She may at some point produce a hot tub and steam room. I start rubbing hard at my neck.

‘On which note, have you submitted your first post to the World Wide Web today?’ My grandmother raises her eyebrows. ‘Suitably aspirational and brand appropriate, I hope?’

She makes social media sound like you have to send an application form with your passport and a stamped-addressed envelope to the tiny robots that run ‘The Internet’.

‘Yes, Grandma.’ I smile at Genevieve gratefully, then absent-mindedly poke the inside of my ear with a finger. ‘Over a hundred and thirty-two thousand likes in half an hour.’

‘Good girl.’ She turns a page in my gold scrapbook of media clippings (aka my Book of Shame). ‘Though the tabloids continue to focus on your difficulties with young Noah Anthony. This is not a good look for you, Faith.’

She holds up a papped photo of me scowling at my boyfriend, a large glob of mayonnaise positioned neatly on my chin like a white goatee.

‘I was hungry,’ I say, flushing. ‘We’re doing brilliantly, I promise.’

Also I’m not entirely sure how to eat a burger in a way that says We Are Madly In Love But You Said No To Chips – Get Your Hands Off My Skinny Fries.

‘Valentines don’t wash their dirty laundry in public,’ Dame Sylvia reminds me severely. ‘We pay other people to do it in a secret and exclusive celebrity Launderette facility, preferably on the other side of town. Have I made myself clear?’

I nod humbly.

All millions of people can see is Noah – adoring and attentive – and me: a grumpy, greedy cow with no idea where my mouth is.

Must do better, Eff.

‘On which note, I saw the Variety proofs this morning.’ The scrapbook page is turned. ‘You look very pretty, but say very little, Faith. Please do try to make an interesting comment. Nobody wants to interview a statue, even if it’s of a goddess.’

‘But Mercy and Max were taking all the—’

‘Then find a way to make yourself heard.’ Grandma flips another page, scans, then sighs. ‘The Daily Mail has once more referred to you as aloof and an Ice Queen. Darling, if you were a man, that would be a way of saying enigmatic. As a woman, it just means nightmare. You must try to come across as warmer. But not so warm that you look desperate, obviously.’

Genevieve and I make eye contact.

My grandmother’s assistant is in her early twenties, but she’s wearing a velvet jacket, midiskirt and ruffled blouse. It’s like an identical version of my grandmother has sprouted – the way you can take cuttings from plants and put them in small pots to make new ones.

She nods with raised eyebrows. Warm up, Faith.

‘Sure. Sorry.’

Our limo glides to a stop in the middle of the road – imperiously ignoring the frustrated beeps of the cars stuck behind us – and a wave of nausea whips through me.

Maybe if I vomit all over myself they’ll send me home. Although something tells me I’ll just be handed another wet wipe, sprayed with pine-scented car freshener and sent on my way.

My phone pings.

Ohmygodohmygod, I forgot to say GOOD LUCK! You’re going to NAIL IT. YOU’RE A TOTAL PARASITE OF FEMININITY! Hxxx

‘Umm.’ Smiling briefly, I tug the white floaty dress I’ve been handed over my damp orange sports bra. ‘Grandma, can we … Do you think … Perhaps we could quickly go over what I’m supposed to—’

‘We’ve been studying drama every Wednesday for nearly a year, Faith.’ My grandmother frowns. ‘Have you not been listening? Did we not cover every key point?’

‘Yes, I’ve read Stanislavski and Chekhov and Meisner and Adler – I know every word – I just—’

‘Then I do not understand the problem.’

A short silence.

‘Acting is in your blood,’ clarifies Dame Sylvia Valentine, five-time Oscar winner, recipient of the BAFTA lifetime achievement award and British National Treasure. ‘A rare, valuable gift passed from my mother to me, to your mother to you.’

The door is opened by the chauffeur as Genevieve hands me a printed script.

A few more irritated beeps from behind us.

‘You are a Valentine, darling,’ my grandmother concludes with a tight smile. ‘The entire world has been handed to you on a plate. All you have to do is not screw it up.’

FAITH VALENTINE SAYS PARKS ARE ‘NICE’

That’s right, you heard it here first, T-zoners! During an EXCLUSIVE interview with gorgeous sleb Effie V, she EXCLUSIVELY admitted that she likes oak trees, sushi and the colour green! And I kissed her!

For proof, KEVIN, click the video on the left.

Don’t screw it up, Faith.

Don’t screw it up, screw it up, screw it up, screw it, screw—

The door gets simultaneously kicked from the other side as I pull on it, nearly smacking me in the face.

‘Whoa! Sorry.’ A short girl with cropped blonde hair and freckles rolls green eyes at me. ‘Cat on a pink bicycle, it’s you? What a waste of my flaming morning. Have fun with the unearned leg-up, Valentine. Must be nice.’

Then she stomps out through the front door: dungarees, thick silver boots, little but somehow taking up so much space. Blinking, I watch her go.

‘Faith Valentine?’ the receptionist squeaks as I turn round. ‘OMG, you’ve arrived! And you’re even more beautiful than in your headshots! How’s your poor mother? I’ve been heartbroken about Juliet’s –’ she lifts her voice into a whisper-shout – ‘TRAGIC DECLINE.’

At my name, every girl in the room looks up, narrows their eyes and looks back down again.

‘She’s—’

‘That’s just so great!’ The receptionist stands up and waves away the actress waiting nervously outside the casting room. ‘You, sit down. I’m under strict instructions to send Faith Valentine straight in. Please, Faith, do let me!’

She opens the door and bows slightly, as if she can see I might need professional help getting in and out of rooms. Humiliated, I swallow and step forward.

Be warm, Faith, but not too warm.

Enthusiastic but not desperate; calm but not dull; funny but not try-hard; quirky but not crazy; feisty but not aggressive; beautiful but relatable; elegant but not icy; confident but not arrogant; feminine but not girly; nice but not boring.

Yourself but – you know … someone else.

My grandmother and I have spent the first ten minutes of each Wednesday lesson practising the Stanislavski method. You draw an imaginary circle round yourself and block everything else out, keeping you safe and private, no matter what’s happening.

Yeah, I can’t do it.

I’m standing in front of an entire roomful of strangers who are assessing me carefully. Taking me apart so they can evaluate the individual components: my mother’s eyes, grandmother’s nose, father’s mouth and height … Until I’m just little pieces of people who aren’t even me. A composite of recycled beauty handed down by others and instructed to look after carefully, like an old clock or a vintage handbag.

‘The middle Valentine,’ an older woman with tortoiseshell glasses announces to the room. ‘Mike and Juliet’s girl!’

‘Remarkable,’ somebody says, taking notes. ‘Exotic but also classic. The camera’s going to love her.’

On cue, I switch myself on.

‘Hello!’ Walking forward, I smile with a dimple in my left cheek. ‘It’s so very nice to meet you.’ I’ve learnt to subtly bite the inside of my mouth without anyone noticing. Nobody knows my dimple is fake. Not even Noah.

‘Hi,’ I say to each person in turn. Dimple. ‘Hi there.’ Dimple. ‘Hey.’ Dimple. Dimple. Dimple. Dimple. The inside of my mouth has started bleeding.

‘Hello.’ I’ve reached the famous casting director, Teddy Winthrop. He’s so old and crumpled he makes my grandma look like a Manhattan debutante. ‘It’s a privilege to meet you.’

Dimpling again – ow! – I hold out my hand.

‘Established.’ Teddy nods, unimpressed. ‘We’re all very much greeted now. Shall we get on with it?’

He flicks rheumy blue eyes at the empty chair in the middle of the room and I glance down at my script.

‘Off-page,’ the casting director demands in an icy voice. ‘Please.’

I look up in horror. ‘But my agent said—’

‘Yes, but as I have been informed, repeatedly and relentlessly, you are one of the Valentines. I think you can manage a single short scene, don’t you?’

I’m suddenly not so sure that my family connections are working in my favour. He may have already met Mercy.

‘Of course.’ I obediently drop the script on the floor. ‘Yes. No problem.’

Then I sit in the chair as two enormous lights abruptly switch on. I flinch. Find the circle, Eff. It feels like I’m some kind of rare lizard in a bright terrarium.

‘Where would you like me to—’

‘Bang,’ the woman wearing glasses abruptly says. ‘Crackle. Ooooh-eee-oooooh. Woo. Woo. Wooooooooooooo. Yeeeeeha. Yeeeha. Woof woof meow oink arrooooooooga.’

I stare at her blankly. What the—

‘Oh!’ I glance to the side and see that the green light on the camera is blinking. ‘Have we started? We’ve started. Umm. Fred! What was that? I heard something – there’s someone outside!’

‘There’snobodythere,’ the woman reads in monotone.

‘We’ve made a mistake,’ I say, voice trembling carefully. ‘We should g-go – we should l-l-leave. Wait, I think I’ve got enough battery in my—’

‘It’sjustasheeporsomething.’

‘But sheep don’t sound like that.’

‘Acowthen.’ The woman peers at me with raised eyebrows. ‘AgoatwhatevertheyhaveouthereI’llgoout justwaitforme—’

Wait. Do I … know her?

A memory clicks. A party my parents threw nearly a decade ago. Music, laughter, flowers, a large white tent in the garden, and we were all sitting on the stairs together, listening to the—

‘… Kiss.’

My parents were standing on the lawn, making a toast, and—

‘Kiss.’

A clink of glasses and I looked round and—

‘Kiss.’

Wait, is that my cue?

‘Ah.’ I blink at the woman from the party, and then at Teddy. I don’t remember kissing in the original script. ‘Kiss? What – who am I supposed to … kiss exactly?’

Confused, I look round the room.

‘I’ll do it!’ A young guy at the back jumps up. ‘If you need someone to make out with Faith Valentine, I can do it! Just … you know. For now. To practise. Or whatever.’

Teddy stares at the poor boy until he sits down again.

I lick my lips. Do something, Faith.

Impulsively, I close my eyes and start to make out passionately with the back of my own hand. I taste of sweat and fear and disinfectant cucumber wipes.

‘F-F-Fred!’ Kiss. ‘Don’t go!’ Kiss. ‘Please! I love you! Don’t leave me in here on my own!’ Kiss. ‘What will happen if— Oh no. Oh no, he’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone, he’s—’

‘And stop,’ says Teddy Winthrop.

I stop.

‘What are you doing?’ The casting director frowns. ‘Do you not want this role? Do you find television beneath the illustrious Valentines?’

‘No!’ I flush in alarm. ‘Of course not. I really want this role, sir. Acting is my life.’

‘You could have fooled me.’ Mr Winthrop looks at the woman in glasses, then back at me. ‘You’re the only character left alive. For the audience, you are the film. You’re alone, you’re scared, something deeply unpleasant is happening and you need to hold the show. Command it.’

‘Would it help if I … move, do you think?’

‘I don’t care if you cartwheel, darling, just play this role with more charisma than a rotten wooden spoon.’

Ouch. Be the Orange, Faith.

Straightening my shoulders, I stand up; change my mind and sit down again; change it again and stand back up. I turn my head; turn it back again. My body feels like it’s being driven by somebody who hasn’t got their licence yet.

Try harder, Faith. You are not trying hard enough. Give them more.

Taking a deep breath, I scream: ‘NOOOOOOOO!’

One hand in a fist clutched to my chest, I fall to my knees and close my eyes. ‘Fred! FREDDDDDD!!!!’ More. ‘FREEDDDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!!’

‘Yes, I think we’ve seen enough.’

I open my eyes, cheeks flaming.

‘Please, Mr Winthrop.’ Don’t be desperate. Don’t be desperate. ‘Is there anything else I can—’

‘No, thank you,’ Teddy says curtly. ‘Please send the next girl in.’

Blinking, I clear my throat and calmly stand up. Then I dust off my dress, brush back my hair and smile. Because the curtain is always up, the audience is always watching and you must always take your bow, even if nobody is clapping.

‘Thank you for taking the time to see me,’ I say politely, dipping my head. ‘I hope to see you all again in the future. Goodbye.’

I slip out of the room.

The door is way too thin.

‘Well,’ Teddy Winthrop grunts from the other side, ‘the infamous Ice Queen might have the looks, but I’d rather hire my kitchen worktop.’

I close my eyes once more.

‘Shame,’ agrees my parents’ old friend. ‘Such a nice girl. Can’t act for toffee, but my goodness: what a face.’

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So, that was fun.

My grandmother’s chauffeur climbs out of the car, tips his hat and opens the door for me as I launch into: ‘Gosh, that went so well! I’m not entirely sure I’m what they’re looking for –’ maybe a human who can convincingly portray another identical human – ‘but I really connected with the director and next time I think that—’

The back of the car is totally empty.

‘They went shopping in Fortnum and Mason, miss,’ the driver says as my smile collapses in relief. ‘Then I believe your grandmother took a sudden liking for afternoon tea at the Hilton.’

My grandmother is such a cartoon character. At some point, she took on the role of timeless Great British Dame – walking stick, imperious attitude, haughty expression, sudden likings for afternoon tea – and just never took it off again. It’s important to remind myself I’m half American and only half Downton Abbey.

My phone pings.

Baby, this album is kicking my butt. Come make it all better? :( Nx

‘Where now, miss?’ The driver climbs back into his seat. ‘Dame Sylvia said you’re welcome to join them.’

I politely pretend to consider this for a few seconds.

Umm, eating scones in a busy, gilt-embossed room (‘Oh, have you met my granddaughter Faith? She’s the future of the Valentines, you know. Darling … not so much jam!’) or watching my cute boyfriend excitedly twiddle buttons on a huge control system like it’s a spaceship he’s only just learnt how to fly?

With a wave of relief, I rummage around in the car door for my secret make-up bag and hold a tiny mirror up to my face. I look tired. But a few more dabs of carefully positioned pore-filler, highlighter, foundation, concealer, blush, mascara, eyeliner, bronzer and everyone will think I’m fine.

I start expertly applying the make-up nobody knows about but me.

Thank goodness for boyfriends.

‘Take me to Abbey Road, please, John.’

Noah is waiting outside.

As the limo pulls up to the world-famous recording studio, I see my sweet guy. He’s perched on a bollard, long legs bent, big black eyes narrowed in concentration while he taps a tune on his jeans with his fingers. You know that moment when you climb into a warm bath, and everything goes tingly and floaty, and you worry you’re going to melt and disappear, but you’re also kind of cool with it if you do?

That’s how I feel every single time I see Noah Anthony. As if I’m disappearing and I don’t mind in the slightest.

‘Eff!’ He looks up as I step out of the car, and I finally feel myself beam without dimples. ‘Oh, thank chicken nuggets you’re here! I’ve been playing the same three chords all morning and I was literally about to rip my fingers out at the joints.’

Noah’s nose is a tiny bit crooked from a brother’s punch when he was small, there’s a scar above his left eyebrow and his front teeth are a little misaligned from the braces he refused to get. But it’s the imperfections that make my boyfriend so gorgeous, that leave the eyes with somewhere interesting to land.

My smile widens as I get closer. He shaved his hair off two days ago – an attempt to look ‘edgier’ – but it actually makes him look soft and vulnerable, like a tiny lamb.

‘Hey.’ I give him a gentle kiss and study his face carefully. ‘Is it going very badly?’

He grimaces.

Noah pretends to find the roller coaster of success overwhelming, but every dip and swerve excites him. He loves the pressure, but he also needs to play the reluctant, overburdened artist, so I pretend not to see it.

‘Dire,’ he sighs, rolling his eyes. ‘Sometimes I wonder what I do it for, you know? I miss the days of sitting in my bedroom, just me and my guitar. The chords aren’t working for me today.’

He makes a sad-emoji face, so I quickly search for an appropriate joke. ‘What do you get when you, er, drop a piano down a mineshaft?’

Noah frowns. ‘Huh?’

I hold my hands out, palms facing him. ‘A flat miner.’

There’s a pause.

‘A Flat Min-or,’ I say again, with slightly different emphasis. ‘It’s … a joke about chords, I think?’

My boyfriend gives one short laugh – ‘Ha!’ – and kisses me on the nose, although frankly he might as well pat me on the head. ‘Who says girls can’t be beautiful and funny?’

Relieved, I kiss him back. ‘Pretty much everyone.’

He grins. ‘Sad times.’

‘Noah?’ Out of nowhere, embarrassment wallops me in the stomach. ‘This morning …’ I wince. ‘The audition … it didn’t … go … brilliantly.’ Charisma of a rotten wooden spoon. ‘I don’t think I … exactly nailed it. I … might have come across as a bit … wooden.’

I’d rather hire my kitchen worktop.

‘Don’t be daft, baby.’ Noah smiles proudly. ‘You’re always so hard on yourself, Eff. You need to believe in yourself as much as I believe in you.’ Here comes the inevitable wordplay. ‘Have a little faith in yourself, know what I mean?’

He laughs. He always laughs at that.

‘No, I really mean it, Noah.’ My eyes are suddenly wet. ‘It was horrendous. Grandma’s going to be so cross with me, my agent will be furious and I’m not sure what to do if—’

‘Oh, please, as if anyone could turn this down.’ He steps back and gestures at me as if I’m a new goddess rising from the sea foam. ‘You’re literally the most beautiful girl in the world. And the sweetest. I mean, look at you, Eff. These eyes? This hair? This mouth. Those—’

I roll my eyes and smack him gently. ‘Yes. Thank you, Noah.’